Tragedy
by JuliaDarkness
Summary: The sequel to "In Dreams," written in honor of May 19, 1536.


**Author's note: "O death, rock me asleep" is a poem that many scholars believe Anne Boleyn wrote while in the Tower.**

Mary was walking down a corridor. It was dark, the torches few and far too dim. But she could feel the fabric of her dress, the tight white fabric around her neck and wrists. No one wore dresses like this anymore. Not even nuns.

There was a small staircase she climbed down, hand to the cold stone to steady herself. With the other hand she gripped her skirt. As she descended the steps she felt a necklace hit against her chest. It was heavy, and on a long chain. That, too, was not the style; it was not conducive for dancing.

At the bottom of the stairs was a door. A metal bar was set against it. Mary grabbed it, and bracing her legs she heaved, heaved it up. She took a second to collect herself before pulling the handle slowly.

The daylight blinded her. The throne room seemed almost outside, it was so flooded with daylight. The people on either side of the aisle all stood up in unison. Mary stepped on the tile floor, and everyone sunk to the ground. Women spread their bright skirts out like fans, and the men knelt down on one knee. The room was silent, and unfamiliar. It was older than the palaces in England, and more beautiful. There were paintings of saints, silk hangings and many glass windows. If Mary had a residence, she would want it to look as beautiful as this. The princess looked behind her. The door had disappeared.

What on Earth was going on?

Mary took a deep breathe, and walked forward. She could feel someone pull at her skirt, and looked down. An old woman kissed her hem. Mary kept walking forward. She stopped at the empty throne, and looked around again. No one said anything. Why wasn't anyone saying anything?

Mary shook her head. There was . . . a feeling, an instinct of some sort. Someone was instructing her. Perhaps it was God, perhaps her mother. Whatever it was, it told her to sit.

So she did.

Only then did the people get up. A man stepped forward.

"Isabella, Reina de Castilla."

Mary turned towards a window. In her faint reflection, she saw she was wearing a ruby and gold cross.

Now Mary was in a small room. It was dark, the only light coming from a small window overlooking the Tower Green.

There alone stood the harlot. She wore a dark blue dress, her pulled in a tight bun. Dark circles bloomed under her eyes like bruises.

"Lady Mary," she said. She made no comment or gesture, but just stood there, waiting.

Mary drew herself and looked the harlot dead in the eye. "I am the princess of Wales. And you will show me the respect I deserve."

She raised an eyebrow slightly, but otherwise showed no emotion. "Oh? The king has given you your title back?"

"Well he took away your's. And Elizabeth"s."

"Do you hate Elizabeth?"

Mary froze. Where did that come from?

"You have every right," the harlot continued. "After all you had to wait on her."

"She is a child, a babe. She did nothing to me. Unlike you." Mary drew in her breathe sharply. "At least now my father will have a real wife and queen again."

"You think he hasn't slept with Jane Seymour already?" The harlot actually laughed.

"The Lady Jane is more modest than you-"

"I saw them do it."

"What?"

"Yes. I walked in on them. Why do you think I miscarried?

Mary grabbed a chair to steady herself. She thought Mistress Seymour was different. Not royalty, of course, as low born-even lower-than the harlot. But she was a Catholic. She was devout, and appeared kind. She wore modest English hoods and spoke in soft tones. Jane Seymour was a good woman.

Wasn't she?

The harlot continued. "You don't honestly think I was the first woman the king dallied with?"

"Well at least the others knew their place!" Mary slapped the harlot across the face. "You took _everything_ from me!"

She held her hand to her face, covering her arrogant smile. "You think I was the one who started this?" She laughed again. "The king had already begun looking for a wife when I came back from France. If it wasn't me it would have been someone else. Someone with more money and better blood, sure. But your mother was already gone."

"That is _not_ true."

"Is it?" She sat down in a plain wooden chair near the window. Her gaze became unfocused as she looked across the lawn. Mary frowned. Harlot or not, there was no precedent for this. This woman should be banished to a convent to live out the rest of her days in penance for her acts. But then again, she did not believe in the sacrament of taking the veil.

"O death," the harlot suddenly said, "rock me asleep

Bring me to quiet rest

Let pass my weary guiltless ghost

Out of my careful breast. . ."

Mary was silent. She was a gifted poet, a dancer, a beauty. And she was smart, smarter than many of the women-or men-in court. She could have made a good marriage, and had lawful children. It was a tragedy, really. It shouldn't have ended like this.

The mistress finished her poem. The two women stared out the window in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts. A church bell rang in the distance.

Finally, Mistress Boleyn got up. To Mary's utter astonishment, she knelt before her.

"I am truly sorry, Lady Mary, for all the trouble I caused you. You did not deserve all that I did, all that we did. And though I dare not ask, I pray you look after Elizabeth. For as you said, she is merely an innocent babe."

She stood up, erect and proud as though she truly was a queen. Then, without another word, she walked out of the chamber, leaving Mary alone in the Tower.

Outside, she could hear people shouting. Mary looked out the window again. What had before been empty lawn was now filled with a crowd of onlookers. Mistress Boleyn stood on a scaffold. Her hair was covered in a white neckerchief. A masked man stood beside her. Suddenly she knelt, and the crown knelt as well.

"No," Mary whispered. But she could not look away. As she prayed, the executioner pulled out a sword he had hidden away. With her head turned, he swung. . .

Mary sat up, panting. The afternoon sun lite the modest bedroom. Bedroom? Yes, bedroom. She was in her bed, for she had been plagued with a migraine the night before. Lady Salisbury ran in.

"Lady Mary, are you alright?"

"What day is it?"

The old governess paled. "May 19, my lady."

Mary carefully climbed out of bed. She felt a salty tear run down her cheek.

It was a tragedy. It was her own doing, but still it was a tragedy.


End file.
